15

I'm not entirely sure where to begin, on my notes for today. It wasn't what I expected - I have no idea what I was expecting, but I don't think this was it.

A driver took us both to one of the civic buildings, further inland. There was a woman waiting in the lobby - dark-haired. She looked as though she were living a life she'd expected to be happy with, but it had been sucked out from under her, somehow.

"This is," said Angilo, and he stopped, in embarrassment. "I'm sorry...?"

"Lauretta," she told him. And, belatedly, looked to me. "You'd be Colonel Rayne?" She extended her hand, for a handshake, keeping firm eye contact.

"That's right."

The handshake was strong, and the resulting smile, from her, was more about determination than about pleasantness.

"I suppose the General has told you what this is all about," she said, nodding for both of us to follow her towards the bank of elevators.

"No," I said. "He hasn't."

There was a brief moment of tension, flittering from Lauretta to Angilo, and then it was gone.

"All right, then," and she was more subdued, this time. She keyed the thirty-first floor, inside the elevator, and the doors slid shut in front of us, sealing us in silence.

"Anyone care to explain?" I asked. Maybe a little too frostily.

Lauretta and Angilo exchanged a glance.

"It's social work," said Angilo. "Lately -"

"There's been an influx of Martian refugees," interrupted Lauretta. "Children, mostly. Parents on Mars will use the last of their money to get their children over here, where conditions are better."

I clenched my jaw. It's true; it's best for children to grow up away from a place choked with riots and starvation.

"And what will I be doing?"

"Connecting children with families," said Lauretta.

The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open. There was a reception area, in front of us; to the right, behind a glass wall, a play room. Filled with children.

As I stepped out of the elevator, I drew their eyes. It was the uniform. All Martian kids know to recognize the uniform.

Lauretta noticed, and she hurried us along, down one of the back hallways.

"This is your office," she told me, pushing the door open.

By Martian standards, it's unbelievably luxurious. A desk of wood-plastic composite? A carpet?

There was still hesitation, I suppose. Angilo was watching me, like everything - everything - depended on my acceptance or rejection of this one opportunity. And I'm sure he could tell - that both of them could tell - what I was thinking. This job would be so much more important than hard labor. It would give me the chance to make a difference. It would let me help some Martian kids who just need someone to look out for them.

Accepting it would mean giving in to Angilo.

It was a near thing.

"When do I start?"

- I looked towards Angilo, when I said this. A subtle tension bled out of his frame, and there was a strange, reciprocal effect on me.

"Right now," said Lauretta. "If you feel up to it."

"Don't I need training?"

"You'll get it on-the-job." She hesitated, awkwardly. "And, some kinds of previous work disqualify employees from training requirements."

I think my heart may have actually skipped a beat. It felt like I'd been dipped in ice-water, for a half-instant. I always assumed that the records, on Mars, of previous employment, criminal history and schooling were all wiped by the sheer number of EMP weapons used on the surface.

Angilo's mouth twisted. "I'll send a car for you at five," he said. "It should take you back to the base."

I watched him leave; he didn't look back, didn't vary his stride.

"You want to get started?" asked Lauretta. "There are some kids in there ready for interviews."

"Yeah," I said, "sure. Send them in."